The Last Cup
He hesitated after flicking the Splenda packet three times with his middle finger to settle its contents at the bottom. A familiar thought--is this the packet that's going to kill me?--crossed his mind. His lips pursed slightly; his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. Then he tore open the tiny paper container and dumped it into the mug.
It was impossible to know, really. Everybody died from something. If he used real sugar (either pure cane or turbinado -- everybody knew that refined granulated sugar directly caused diabetes, love handles and general unattractiveness) he would die from that, too. Maybe it would be the creamer: 40 calories per teaspoon which he would have to account for later by tacking an extra half mile onto his run. Or maybe the coffee itself was the culprit: no calories, fat or sugar, but it was just a matter of time until he succumbed to debilitating heart palpitations. He should quit.
But he still had enough grounds for at least three days, and he hated wasting food. He would drink his last cup on Friday morning. That way, the headaches would last through Sunday, and by Monday he would be ready to face work without a crippling caffeine deficit.
Maybe he would try green tea. It didn't taste as good, but it was equally cheap and easy to make, and thus a suitable replacement for his morning habit. It's worth noting that he was only 22, and had only been a coffee drinker for a year. The graveyard hours of his part-time job necessitated something to keep him awake and occupied, so coffee it was. In reality, he didn't ever feel more awake or alert after ingesting caffeine. He had just grown used to having a hot drink that took him approximately half an hour to finish, and those 30 minutes made him feel like the Real College Students for whom coffee was a way of life -- but not like those Last-Minute-Crammers who lived on 5-Hour Energy and Adderall through finals week. They were just dumb.
Coffee also presented an intellectual challenge that he both reveled in and rebelled against. Learning the different roasts; various brewing methods; proper bean harvesting locales -- he could be a pseudo-expert just by reading and drinking. Also, why did other people know so much more than he did? He didn't like being out of the loop. But the hipster-artisan-barista trend, and his disdain for hipsters and overly expensive consumer goods, was one he hoped he could bypass. He wanted to be a Classic Coffee Drinker, the type who could tell a good cup from a great cup, but who also understood its more utilitarian properties. He didn't want to be a Starbucks Pro, a champion of flavored syrups and seasonal creations and disposable income.
He had read somewhere that coffee, like any addiction, wasn't love at first taste. If the author was right, that meant he'd had to learn to like it. Of course he'd hated coffee when he tried it as a 12-year-old, but he had also hated asparagus, macaroni and cheese and anything that wasn't chicken fingers. He remembered drinking iced coffee a year ago and enjoying it. It wasn't an addiction that deserved to be lumped in with cigarettes and Robitussin; it was an acquired taste, like wine. People drank wine all the time without being addicted to it. And if coffee was really dangerous, it would have its own laws, besides that fair-trade liberal bullshit. That author sucked.
He sipped the coffee, burning his tongue in the process. He didn't mind. Everybody dies from something.
